


Comfort

by This_is_your_Heichou_speaking



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Harry Potter, Fluff, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Pinching, Top Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22451944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking/pseuds/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking
Summary: Tom finds out about Harry's detentions.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 42
Kudos: 1291





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for [CynthiaReine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynthiaReine/pseuds/CynthiaReine) for betaing!
> 
> Also this came about bc of a convo in CoS with Dory, Chu and Earth, so thanks to them too (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄

At first, Harry doesn't realise that anything has changed. He's too glad that Tom is spending dinner with him—around this time of year Tom goes into what Harry affectionately calls 'Study Mania', so he spends less time at mealtimes and more time in the library. An unfortunate side effect of that is that Harry gets to see him a lot less, but he doesn't mind. It's one of Tom's quirks, and Harry loves it because he loves Tom.

Nevertheless, it pleases him when Tom slips into the seat next to him that evening. He immediately starts telling Tom all about the last few days, about Quidditch practice and Ron's colourful attempt at Transfiguration yesterday and the latest endeavour Malfoy made at sabotaging his potion. He doesn't realise he's gesturing animatedly, doesn't realise Tom's not paying attention anymore until Tom reaches out and grabs Harry's wrist.

It's the bad hand. It doesn't register until Tom pulls it closer to himself, a little more sharply than he no doubt intended. By the time Harry registers what Tom's noticed, it's too late to hide the words along the side of his palm.

"What is this." His voice is flat, and the noise and commotion of the great hall fades into the background. Harry's ears are suddenly loud with ringing, and his face feels hot because what is he supposed to do? He tries to pull his hand out of Tom's grasp, but it's such a pathetic attempt that Tom's fist doesn't even move.

And still Tom waits. Harry swallows, and his eyes feel hot and his mouth feels dry, and Tom's face is so stony, so cold. Harry has never seen that expression directed at him before, and it makes his heart feel incredibly heavy.

"It's nothing," he says, but it comes out so quiet and hoarse he doesn't think Tom's even heard it. There is a beat, then another—a small eternity contained in a few seconds, and then Tom turns to Ron and Hermione. Harry doesn't look at them, but he knows Tom is glaring. Instead he focuses on the blunt edge of Tom's nails, the way they go from pink to pale yellow with Tom's grip.

"Did you know of this?"

He sounds furious, and Harry thinks he should say something, but he feels incredibly far away. What's he supposed to do in a situation like this? Harry's seen Tom angry and upset enough times that he's familiar with how to calm him down, but never like this—never with this _venom_. He feels lost and out of his depth, _wrong_ in a way he didn't when Hermione had confronted him about the same thing.

The next few minutes pass in a rush. Both of his friends stay silent, and Tom repeats himself, slower this time, like he thought Harry's friends might not have understood. Harry finally looks up, and sees Hermione's eyes have gone shiny. Ron is bright red, glaring at Tom, but it's not Tom he's angry with.

"I told him to tell someone," he says. "That _hag_ Umbridge—” he swallows hard. Tom pauses for a long moment, like he expects Ron to continue, but Ron looks like he'd sooner flip the table. Another beat, and then Tom stands and pulls Harry off his chair. He doesn't say anything, doesn't let go of Harry or slow down as he leads him out of the Great Hall. Harry has a feeling he knows where they're going, but he doesn't dare say anything. He watches Tom, watches his ears and nape go pinker as the second pass with a detached sort of curiosity, and just walks.

When they reach the office, Tom reaches out and knocks, and Harry realises that Tom is trembling. It makes him feel unbearably guilty, in a way that he's never felt before. He isn't even sure _why_ he feels so guilty, because he hasn't really done anything wrong, has he? But Tom's mouth is a straight, lipless line as he enters the office, and he won't even look at Harry.

McGonagall has her hands folded neatly before her on her desk, her glasses perched on her nose. She gestures for Tom and Harry to take a seat, and for a second Harry thinks Tom will refuse. But then he slides into one of the chairs, and pulls Harry down into the other one.

He still won't look at Harry.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" Professor McGonagall asks. Her eyes are intent on Tom.

And Tom doesn't hesitate. He thrusts Harry's hand forward, the hand he's not let go of once, like it's an accusation. "Look what she did to him," he says. Harry can almost hear the tremble in Tom's voice, and it makes him feel cold. "Look at what she _dared_ to do to him."

Professor McGonagall goes completely still. She looks at Harry's hand, then up at Harry's face, and then back down. Her face is stone, but her hand is surprisingly gentle as she takes a hold of Harry's fingers and turns it this way and that. And still, Tom won't let go, not even to make it easier for McGonagall.

"I see," she murmurs faintly, like she doesn't see at all. She seems devastated, something which—more than anything—shakes Harry to his core, because since when has Professor McGonagall looked anything but perfectly composed? Then again, he thinks, the same could be said of Tom, and yet here he is with both of them overreacting in different ways, but overreacting all the same. Is it really so big a deal as they're making it out to be?

  
  


As he watches, her face crumples, and then it's blazing with fury. She stands up in a sharp movement, and looks down at Tom. "Please return to your dormitory, Mr Riddle," she says. "Mr Potter, I'll have to ask you to come with me."

Harry opens his mouth, not really sure of what he's going to say, but it doesn't matter. "I'm not going anywhere," Tom says furiously. The place where he holds Harry feels hot now, almost uncomfortably warm. Harry doesn't want him to let go. Professor McGonagall considers Tom, her face impassive, and then nods. Without a word, she turns and stalks out of her office with great speed. Tom doesn't waste a second before he's following her.

They are at the DADA office before long. It has become increasingly familiar to Harry over the past few months, so much so that Harry knows exactly the sight he'll see as he enters, could probably draw it from memory. Umbridge's presence has all but overridden any memories Harry had of Professor Lupin here. Harry swallows, and tries to look aloof.

Professor McGonagall doesn't wait for an answer. She knocks and then opens the door, and when Harry looks around her he can see Umbridge look up with her mouth already open—no doubt to lay into whichever student she imagines has dared enter her office. She freezes when Professor McGonagall enters, and pastes a sickly sweet smile on her face.

"Minerva," she simpers. "What a surprise to see you here. Can I help you?"

Tom moves over to stand beside Professor McGonagall, like he needs to see Umbridge's face. He tugs Harry to stand beside him, and though Harry is reluctant, he lets him. But it's like Umbridge is hyper-aware of him, because her gaze turns to him immediately, and her mouth twists.

"Mr Potter," she says with disdain, and that's all she says, because Professor McGonagall interrupts. 

" _Mr Potter_ came to me with a complaint, Dolores," she says. Umbridge glances at her, but ultimately doesn't seem to care, because she turns back to Harry.

"What _lies_ have you been spreading now, boy," she demands. "It seems that even after all of my best efforts, you haven't learned your lesson!" And then, "Detention! With me, tonight!"

Tom moves suddenly, unexpectedly. He's been standing beside Harry silently, but now he shifts so Harry's half behind him, as if he thinks Umbridge will throw something at him. Professor McGonagall moves at the same time, in sync with Tom like they've rehearsed it. She comes to stand before both of them in a way that reminds Harry distinctly of a tigress protecting her cubs. It makes him feel unseasonably warm, though he can't really understand why.

He has calmed down by now, which is an oddity in and of itself. He isn't afraid of Umbridge by any means, but she always makes him feel so angry and wound up that this new composure feels strange. He looks up at Tom, the way his eyes are fire and intent on Umbridge, and slowly realises there's a new heaviness in the atmosphere.

He turns back to Professor McGonagall. She's drawn her wand.

"What are you doing?" Umbridge says, feather-soft. Her hands are somewhere under the table, and she looks both shocked and confident that nothing can happen to her. When Professor McGonagall doesn't move, Umbridge giggles like she's told a mediocre joke—something she's obligated to laugh at, if only out of politeness. 

"Threatening a fellow staff member?" She says, her voice rising steadily "And on top of that, a trusted representative of the Minister himself? I expected a lot from you, Minerva, but never this. Never _treachery_ —"

In that moment, her eyes flick towards Harry and back almost faster than Harry can register, but it's enough. Professor McGonagall has her bound and gagged before she can even lift a finger, and then she's floating her up so she's sitting on the desk before them, struggling futilely.

"And now, it's my turn to speak," Professor McGonagall says darkly, her Scottish accent thick. Harry is in awe, because not only had he never expected Professor McGonagall to be capable of this, he hadn't thought someone would ever go so far for such a small thing. It's just a little cut, after all, and not nearly the worst thing he's been through. Harry has thought of her as nothing more than another Flitwick, another Sprout—kind and fair, but ultimately unable to help. But both Tom and the Professor are behaving like there is an invisible line between acceptable and unacceptable, and Umbridge has just crossed it.

Harry thinks the line was already crossed long ago, but the detentions aren't _why_. They aren't really the reason he hates Umbridge—or rather, not the whole reason.

"I have let you run through my school so far, Dolores, because I didn't want to cause trouble or difficulty. But _hurting a student_? Using such a vile instrument as _this_?" Professor McGonagall flicks her wand sharply, and Umbridge's drawers shoot open, upending themselves on the floor between the two women. Among them lies the black-feathered quill, innocuous. Harry determinedly doesn't stare at it, and feels Tom's fingers tighten over his wrist.

"You made a mistake thinking you only had to worry about the Headmaster, Dolores," Professor McGonagall says coolly. "This is my school just as much as his, and I won't have you in it any longer." With that, she turns to Umbridge's Floo, and leaves Harry and Tom with their bound DADA teacher.

Tom waits, watching as Professor McGonagall bends over and sticks her head in the fire. Then he turns his gaze to Umbridge, and steps forward until he stands right by her ear. 

"Pray that you leave this castle tonight, you pathetic, toad-faced excuse of a _roach_. Pray I never see you again, because I'm just _waiting_ for an excuse."

He steps back again, and by the time Professor McGonagall comes back, both Harry and Tom are standing where she left them. She is followed by a short but imposing woman who looks even older than Professor McGonagall. Harry thinks her face might be kindly—it has the same round, open features as Mrs Weasley. But at the moment it's folded in a frown so severe that even Umbridge flinches at the sight of it.

She turns her head and speaks quietly to Professor McGonagall, and Harry watches Tom. He doesn't think he was meant to hear what Tom said, but he has. And now he wonders what Tom is really capable of, and what he's thinking of doing to Umbridge. It's a sign that he cares about Harry, surely, but he still won't acknowledge that Harry is even here, even though he _must_ be feeling Harry's stare burning into the side of his head.

Professor McGonagall stops conversing with the other woman, who nods and pulls out her own wand. "Come on, Dolores," she says. "You have a long evening ahead of you." As she starts to leave, she turns to Harry as if she's going to say something. Her eyes are soft and dark and bright with an unspoken promise. But she remains silent, nods to them and leaves, Umbridge floating unceremoniously behind her.

There is a long, awkward moment of silence left in her wake. Harry watches the green flames of the Floor die down into yellow-red embers, trying to come to terms with how _easy_ it has been. All McGonagall has done is make a call, and Umbridge is gone. It's only taken her a mere few minutes to get rid of the plague that has been bothering Harry so.

Has Harry stayed quiet for no reason?

It's a new concept. Even when he made the worst, most dangerous choices, he's known that he's doing it for _some_ good, a purpose worth the risk. He'd thought the same for Umbridge cutting his hand open night after night, and yet.

And yet this time, there was nobody agreeing with him.

* * *

Professor McGonagall walks them back to Gryffindor tower. Tom moves his grip from Harry's wrist to entwine their fingers together, and the skin where he held Harry so long feels cold.

The walk is silent. It is only when Harry turns to the portrait that Professor McGonagall stops him, her hand feather-light on his shoulder. When Harry turns to her, she is biting her lip. She looks upset, and if Harry didn't know better he'd say she looked like she was about to cry.

The most emotion he's seen Professor McGonagall display before today was the slightest twitch of her lips, an approximation of a smile at the occasional something the Weasley twins had said. But now there is guilt and sadness naked on her face, clear for him to see. He stiffens, unsure of how to react, feeling like he's looking at something he's not supposed to be seeing.

"Potter," Professor McGonagall says. "Harry. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Professor, you don't need to—"

"But I do," McGonagall interrupts. "That woman was hurting you under my very nose. It is my responsibility to look after _you_ , Potter, and I did an abysmal job at it. Not only did I not notice, _you_ didn't feel like you could come to me, and that means I failed." She heaves a sigh, looking much older all of a sudden.

Harry stares at her silently, unsure what to say. Nobody has ever said anything like this before—not even Dumbledore. Harry has always been responsible for himself and his own safety, and it's suited him just fine that way. Except maybe it hasn't, because McGonagall's earnest expression is making him feel oddly choked up, and he doesn't know what to do about it. A strange sorrow fills him, sorrow he doesn't really want to examine. But it must have shown on his face, because Professor McGonagall opens her arms and inches forward.

And Harry, without thought, lets himself embrace her.

She is warm and she smells like chamomile and cats and magic. He lets himself sink into her hold, strong and protective, and is reminded of Mrs Weasley. He has never equated the two women with each other, what with how different they appear to be, but he supposes that they are more alike than they at first seem.

After, Harry whispers the password to the portrait, and enters the dormitory under McGonagall's watchful eyes. Tom follows him in, hand firm on his wrist, and the professor says nothing about it.

* * *

The next day feels a little like a fever dream. Harry wakes up to Tom’s face next to his on the pillow, watching him. He doesn't say anything about it, but when Harry gets up he notices that Tom's already dressed, and that his bag is waiting by his trunk at the footboard. Unlike yesterday, Tom doesn't hold his wrist, but he _does_ stick incredibly close. Every time Harry looks up, Tom is watching him with a strangely flat look in his eye. Harry wants to make it go away, but he doesn't know how.

He feels like a raw, exposed nerve. He doesn't have DADA, but by second period he's hearing whispers all along the corridors between lessons, and by lunch everyone has their own version of the story. Harry hears everything, from Umbridge being kidnapped in the middle of the night to a spectacular duel between her and Dumbledore with nobody but the professors as witnesses. There is already more news when lunch rolls around—Umbridge in custody on child endangerment charges. The rumours calm down a little after that.

The whole time, Ron and Hermione watch him tentatively. He tries to pretend they're not behaving any differently than usual, but the affection in Hermione's eyes, and the sympathy in Ron's, makes him feel a little like a soufflé —like he's keeping his shape, but just barely.

When he re-enters the common room that evening, it is warmly lit and everyone's there—Ron and Hermione, of course, but also Ginny and Luna and Neville, and all the first year Muggleborns who Umbridge has picked on. It is almost crowded, but not too much, so that it feels cosy rather than claustrophobic. He stands with Tom on one side, tightly pressed into his side, and then there is bushy hair in his mouth and firm arms around his waist, Ron's pointy chin on his head, and Harry has never felt this warm.

"I was so worried about you," Hermione whispers into his ear. Her voice is wobbly, like she's going to cry, and she's standing on Harry's toes, but Harry just hugs her tighter.

"Never do that again, mate," Ron says. "I don't think Hermione could stand it." ' _I don't think I could stand it_ ,' Harry hears, and smiles into Hermione's hair. He _knows_ that his friends love him, knows that they care, but it's never hit him like this before. When he lifts his gaze he sees Neville, quiet but hurt even though they haven't talked in what feels like an age, and Ginny—angry that she couldn't do more, that Harry hadn't let her help. He sees Luna, her smile so honest it immediately makes him feel at ease, and thinks, ' _This is my family_ ,' and thinks, ' _I won't hurt them again_.'

Later, they sit around the fireplace and watch Ron best everyone at chess and talk, and Harry loses himself in feeling so very _loved_. Nobody has cared this much about him, ever. He remembers tripping and skinning his knees when he was seven, and the rough way Aunt Petunia wiped the sand out of his wound, her face an ever-present scowl. He remembers the first time he broke a glass and cut himself on its edges, and the booming voice of Uncle Vernon calling him useless with no regard for the sting or the blood.

He had understood that his friends were different, of course, but he didn't understand _how_ different—didn't understand that what he felt for them was exactly what they felt for him. He would fight and scream and die for them, and for the first time, he believes truly that they'd all do the same for him.

The atmosphere blends into hazy hues of red and gold, warmth and chocolate on his tongue, and he doesn't even realise Tom is pulling him from the room until the door closes behind them, and they're in the quiet darkness of the dorm room. Harry doesn't say anything, and Tom stares at him in the shadows like he doesn't even notice them. His eyes are shiny and cold at the same time, and Harry wonders if he's angry after all. But his hands are soft on Harry's waist, like Harry is something delicate, something fragile. He presses close to him, their chests against one another's, until Harry has to look up to see the underside of Tom's chin. And they stay like that for what feels like an age.

Tom's breathing is a lullaby. After the affection he has gorged himself on, the love he has grown lazy on, Tom's closeness feels like it's making him sleepy and aware all at once. The rest of the world ceases to matter—all of Harry's universe is comprised of Tom's scent and warmth, and time is of no consequence. By the time Tom moves away again, Harry's body is more relaxed than it has been in forever, and he feels more fragile than he knows how to handle.

Tom's touch gets rougher. He picks Harry up and dumps him onto his bed, drawing the curtains around them. His hands are fast and sure, efficient with no regard for Harry's comfort as he strips the both of them, and it feels like cold air after a hot shower. 

"I keep thinking," Tom says eventually, quietly. They are both naked now, Tom between Harry's legs, and Harry watches the movement of Tom's chest as he breathes. Tom's hand cup around to hold Harry by the thighs, pushing them together so Harry can feel the slow swell of Tom's cock against his own. It feels so good that he almost doesn't hear the next words that come out of Tom's mouth.

"I suppose you didn't think you could trust me."

He stills. He knows his eyes are wide, perhaps comically so, but Tom looks so _disappointed_ in him. He's been in a strange mood since yesterday, refusing to talk to Harry but never straying far from him, his touch sweet and then rough the next second. And now he looks at Harry, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkled faintly, and he doesn't even look angry. He looks like Harry let him down, and that is somehow infinitely worse.

Harry starts to shake his head. "No, I didn't-"

But Tom doesn't listen. He rolls his hips against Harry's, and although there's no finesse or delicacy to the movement, the sheer pressure feels arousing. Harry feels like he could lose himself in Tom's touch, but Tom's downturned mouth and unhappy eyes keep him tethered to cold reality, and it wells up in his chest.

"What other reason could there be, for you not to tell me?" Tom says. "You hid what she was doing from me, I know you did."

A pause, and then Harry nods slowly, shamefully. Tom sighs and shakes his head like he'd been saddened greatly. "Why else would you do that, if not because you didn't believe I could take care of you?"

"I didn't want to worry you," Harry says, but it seems a feeble response to how upset Tom is. He almost regrets saying it, because there is such an expression of dismay on Tom's face, that he doesn't even need to say anything for Harry to know what he is thinking.

And suddenly he thinks, is it really that surprising? If Tom had been serving detentions with Umbridge instead and not told Harry what was happening, wouldn't he also feel the same way? The realisation makes him want to hide his face, but Tom doesn't let him. As soon as Harry lifts his hands, Tom grabs them by the wrists and pins them above Harry's head. And Harry knows he's able to break the hold if he tries, if he so pleases, but he doesn't.

Tom slips his other hand between their bodies, underneath Harry until he's pushing at Harry's arse. There is magic on his breath and then the fingers are coming back slick and wet, and pushing into Harry's body with a familiarity that only comes with shameless intimacy. He stretches carefully, gently, and for a second Harry wishes he'd be rough.

He wishes Tom would just be angry, instead of sad and disappointed and hurt.

But Tom goes slow. And then, when Harry's loose and ready, pushes his cock at Harry's hole. "What did I do to make you think I didn't want to be bothered?" he asks, and Harry can't reply, because Tom is sliding into him and it's too much, too overwhelming, too intense.

And Tom is so _present_ inside him, heavy and hot and large. Harry wants to lose himself in it, wants to enjoy Tom fucking him, but he feels so torn. Because Tom is still frowning, and it makes an uncomfortable sort of feeling rise in his stomach. He reaches, surges up to kiss Tom on the mouth and make the expression go away, but Tom ducks his head into Harry's neck, and Harry's left staring at the canopy of his four-poster.

And he doesn't know what to do to make it okay.

Everything feels heavy and tingly, like his blood lies still in his limbs instead of flowing through his veins. He wants to say something to fix it all, to make Tom happy with him again, but none of the words in his head feel meaningful enough to make it happen. He thinks and thinks and thinks, and finds himself focussing on Tom's hot breath against his collarbone. It tickles his skin, the same place over and over again, and a part of Harry wants to tell him to stop.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, eventually. Tom laughs, barely a sound, and lifts his head again. His eyes are alight now, upset but in a less desolate way. He doesn't smile, but his teeth seem sharper anyhow as he stares down at Harry.

"You aren't," he says. "Not enough, anyway."

His hands tighten on Harry's hips, and he begins fucking him. It's slow and deep, the movements so small that Tom's not really thrusting, but grinding his cock deeper and deeper into Harry's body. And the weight and push and size of him make Harry ache somewhere inside, but it's the kind of hurt that comes with prodding a sore tooth, or moving a limb that's numb, but not so much that you can't feel it. It's pleasant, in an odd way, and it makes Harry whine softly into Tom's mouth.

' _Not sorry enough_ ,' Tom had said, but Harry doesn't truly understand what he means until much later. Tom has him loose and pliant and exhausted by now, and he's faster—the slap of skin against skin filling the room. His skin is warm and damp with sweat, and his arms shake with the strain of keeping himself up above Harry for so long, but he doesn't slow except for when he thinks Harry's close to coming.

Harry lies on his stomach now, face to the side and back arched. His hips ache with the position, but Harry doesn't care. He's too preoccupied with the desperation rising in him, his arse wet with Tom's come and the rim of his hole burning with the constant penetration. Tom fucks into him hard, and the wet sound of his cock is obscene. Harry might have blushed, but he's too tired and too far gone to.

' _Not sorry enough_ ,' but what Tom meant is, ' _I'll make you feel sorry_.' And Harry does, he does, and he begs Tom to stop, to let him come, to forgive him. "Never again," he says, "I'll never hide something like this from you again. Just _please_ let me come, Tom, I _beg_ you—"

But it does nothing.

He comes again, pinching the head of Harry's cock. It sends a sharp twinge up his body and Harry cries out. He twists to get away, to get any kind of relief, but Tom's touch is practiced and harsh. Harry's erection flags despite how hungry he is for release, and it's only when he is limo again that Tom let's go. His come is hot inside Harry, and there's so much of it by now that when he slips out of Harry's body, it feels like a flood follows his cock. Harry's thighs and arse are wet and slick and warm, and he trembles with need. But Tom lays him on his back and curls up close, his mouth at Harry's, and says, "Yes, that's exactly what I wanted. Your eyes all wet and red and miserable."

And he kisses Harry, softly, and says, "You've learned your lesson, haven't you?"

He has. Harry doesn't think he'll ever forget it.


End file.
